Death On Blackheath tp-29

by Anne Perry

  ‘But no blood,’ Pitt said with surprise. He looked at the ground near her and saw nothing to mark the proximity except the claw marks of small animals. ‘And she wasn’t here last night?’ he went on.

  ‘She’d ’ave bin seen, this close to the main paths,’ the sergeant answered. ‘And ’er clothes are damp but not soaked. There’s the cart tracks as well. No, she was put here after dark yesterday. God alone knows what for! But if we catch the swine what did it, you won’t need the hangman …’

  One of the young men cleared his throat. ‘Commander Pitt, sir?’

  Pitt looked at him.

  ‘Sir, she’s lying kind of odd, like her spine’s bent, or something. But I were ’ere when we found the first one, sir, an’ she were lying exactly the same way — I mean absolute exactly. Like it’s the same thing all over again.’

  Pitt had a flash in his mind’s eye of the woman they had thought was Kitty. It was exactly the same, as if she had the same internal pain twisting her back.

  The wind was rising, whining a little in the branches above them and rattling as it knocked the dead weed heads together.

  ‘You’re right. Well observed,’ Pitt said. ‘I presume the police surgeon in on his way?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Then I’ll talk to the couple who found her, until he comes. Might as well let them be on their way. Anything else about her? I suppose no one has any idea who she is?’

  ‘No idea at all, sir. Except the quality of her dress an’ jacket suggest she could be another maid. Looked at ’er ’ands, an’ she’s got little burns and scars on them too, like she did a lot of ironing or cooking, or that kind of thing. And … there’s a handkerchief in her coat pocket, an embroidered one with lace and an “R” stitched on it. Far as I can recall it’s a pretty exact match for the one we found on the other body. An’ worse than that, sir, we found this on her.’

  He took an envelope out of his own pocket and opened it. Inside was a gold chain with a very beautiful fob on it, also gold, about an inch in diameter, but of an irregular shape. It was slightly indented around the circumference, like a five-petalled rose. On the reverse were the initials ‘BK’ in an ornamental script. Bennett Kynaston? It had to be the missing chain and fob from Dudley Kynaston’s watch that he claimed was taken from his pocket.

  ‘I can just imagine what the papers will make of this,’ he said grimly. ‘Let me see the handkerchief too, please?’

  The man bent and picked it out of the dead woman’s pocket. He passed it to Pitt. It was a small square of white lawn, lace-edged and embroidered with an ‘R’ in one corner, with tiny flowers. It was an exact match for the earlier one.

  ‘I’ll go and speak with Kynaston,’ Pitt said to the sergeant, then he turned to Stoker. ‘Stay here. Speak to the couple who found her. Learn all you can. I’ll catch up with you at the police station, or the morgue. Make damn sure this gets priority.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Stoker and the sergeant replied as one.

  Pitt was cold and hungry when he knocked on the front door of Kynaston’s house on Shooters Hill. This time he had no interest in the area steps, or the servants except as they might corroborate anyone else’s story.

  The door was opened by Norton, the butler, who regarded Pitt with unhappy misgiving. No one with any manners called at this hour. It could only mean bad news.

  ‘Good morning, sir. May I help you?’ he said very coolly.

  ‘Thank you.’ Pitt stepped inside, forcing Norton either to let him in, or deliberately to bar the way. ‘I apologise for my boots. They are unfortunately filthy. I have been to the gravel pit … again.’ He knew his voice was shaking. His body was tense, muscles looked tight across the shoulders and in his belly, as if he were as cold as the mutilated body up on the wind-combed grass a thousand yards away. He had tried, really tried, to get it out of his imagination, to concentrate on his job, to watch and listen to the present, but he could not.

  Norton was pale. He swallowed hard. ‘I’m sure the bootboy would be able to do something for you, sir. Perhaps you would care for a pair of slippers in the meantime? And a cup of tea?’

  Pitt was bitterly cold, and he realised his throat was dry. He was also on duty regarding a particularly vile crime. To accept cleaner footwear was a necessary courtesy to the housemaids who would have to try to clean the carpets after him. Tea and toast was a luxury, and therefore an indulgence.

  ‘That is very kind of you,’ he replied. ‘Slippers would be a practical courtesy; the tea is unnecessary. I require to speak to Mr Kynaston before he leaves the house. You will doubtless hear about it very soon. I’m afraid there has been another body found in the gravel pits.’ He saw Norton’s look of horror. ‘It is not Kitty Ryder,’ he added quickly. ‘In fact, it is quite possible that Kitty is still alive and well.’ Instantly he knew he should not have said so much. Certainly Norton would tell his master. Pitt had given away his opportunity to catch Kynaston unaware. ‘I’m sorry, but it cannot wait,’ he added.

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Norton bowed his head very slightly in acknowledgement. ‘I shall inform him immediately. If you would like to wait in the morning room, it is agreeably warm. See if these slippers will fit you.’

  Pitt obeyed, taking off his prized boots, then following Norton to the morning room, slippers in his hand.

  Kynaston came only moments later, his face grave and anxious. He closed the door behind him and remained standing.

  ‘Norton tells me you have found another woman’s body in the gravel pits,’ he said without preamble.

  ‘Yes, sir, I’m afraid so. This one also has been mutilated, and appears to have been dead some time, but placed there only last night.’

  The last dregs of colour drained out of Kynaston’s face. He swallowed hard, as if something constricted his throat.

  ‘For God’s sake, man, why are you telling me this?’ he demanded huskily. ‘Do you imagine that it is Kitty at last?’

  So Norton had not told him! Interesting. Had he not had the opportunity, or was his loyalty more divided than one might suspect?

  ‘No, sir, I think that is not possible,’ he replied. ‘This woman has fair hair, very little like the description of Kitty Ryder. Also we have found Harry Dobson, and he says Kitty ran away with him, but has since left him. We checked, and neighbours and local shopkeepers saw her, alive and well, since she left here.’

  ‘And you couldn’t have told us this before?’ Kynaston said in a sudden explosion of fury. His eyes were blazing, the colour dark in his cheeks. ‘What the devil is the matter with you, man? Whatever you think of me, what about my wife’s feelings? Or those of the other servants? She was part of our household! We cared about her!’

  Pitt felt the lash of his words, but curiously it pleased him. The man was showing some sign of ordinary decency.

  ‘We have only just found out, sir,’ he answered levelly. ‘Yesterday. Sergeant Stoker worked in his own time. This morning I was woken with the news of this second body, which also has a handkerchief identical to the one we found on the first body, and to several your wife possesses.’ He took the gold watch fob out of his pocket and laid it on the table between them. ‘And she also had this …’

  Now Kynaston did sit down, hard, as if he were uncertain his legs would support him much longer. His face was ash pale. ‘That is my watch fob. It used to be my brother’s. That’s why I was so upset when it was stolen.’

  ‘Where did the theft happen, sir? Even approximately?’

  ‘Oxford Street. It was crowded. I only realised when I went to check the time later. Someone is trying to make it appear that I am involved in this,’ he said desperately. ‘God knows why! I have no idea who this woman is, what happened to her or how she got there. Any more than I had for the first one, poor creature.’ He looked up. ‘If she is not Kitty, for which I am profoundly grateful, who is she? She’s still someone, violently dead and her body discarded. Why aren’t you doing everything you can to find out who she is, and who did t
his to her?’

  Pitt controlled his own feelings with some difficulty. He had seen this body, and the first one.

  ‘That’s a regular police job, Mr Kynaston. I’m Special Branch, and my job is the security of the country. And in this case, to safeguard you and your reputation so you can continue with the work you do for the navy.’

  Kynaston buried his head in his hands. ‘Yes … I know that. I’m sorry. Tell me when this latest body was put there, if you know, and I’ll account for wherever I was.’

  ‘Some time after dark yesterday evening,’ Pitt told him, ‘and before light this morning, probably at least an hour before. I can’t tell you closer than that at the moment. I might be able to after I’ve seen the police surgeon, and he has had time to look at her more closely. She’s been dead quite a while.’

  ‘How … how did she die?’

  ‘I don’t know that either. But perhaps we can exclude you before we’ve learned that. Where were you from sundown yesterday until, let’s say, six o’clock this morning?’

  Kynaston looked vaguely surprised. ‘I was in bed most of the night, like anybody else!’

  ‘From sundown yesterday evening, sir?’

  ‘I dined out … at my club. I’d been working late in the City. I didn’t want to come all the way home here to eat. I was tired, and hungry.’ There was a sharp edge to his voice, but Pitt could not tell if it was from irritation or fear.

  ‘Did you dine alone?’ Pitt asked. ‘Would one of the stewards remember you?’

  ‘I had things to consider for a meeting. I was in no mood for idle conversation, however agreeable. But certainly the steward will remember me. Ask him.’

  ‘Yes, sir, I will. If you will give me the name of the club, and the address. And if you recall which steward it was who served you, I’ll speak to him personally. What time did you leave?’

  ‘I didn’t look at the clock. Half-past nine, roughly.’

  ‘And you got home at what time?’

  ‘The traffic was bad. Some stupid accident; man not in control of his horses. I was late. Ask Norton, he’ll tell you. I think it was about eleven.’

  ‘Did you speak to Mrs Kynaston?’ Pitt and Charlotte shared a bed, but he knew that many people with large houses did not necessarily do so, especially when they had been married for some time. Kynaston’s sons were at boarding school or university and both his daughters were married.

  ‘It was unnecessary to disturb her at that time of night,’ Kynaston replied. His mouth twisted in a bitter smile. ‘But if you think I crept out of the house unseen, found some wretched woman’s body and somehow or other carried it up to the gravel pits and left it there, then returned home to my bed again, you might ponder how I managed to do it without disturbing anyone and getting my clothes sodden. Or how I even carried her! It wasn’t in my carriage. The groom would know if I’d disturbed the horses, and I certainly didn’t do it in a hansom cab!’

  Pitt smiled back at him. ‘Frankly, sir, I don’t think you did it at all. But someone did. All I have to do is be satisfied that it could not have been you, or anyone in this house …’

  ‘Norton? Have you lost your wits?’ Kynaston said incredulously. ‘The coachman? The bootboy?’

  ‘No, sir. I never considered Norton a possibility. But your observation about the horses, and the idea of anyone doing such a thing in a hansom very nicely rules him out as well. Actually, we think it was probably a pony and trap.’

  ‘I don’t have one.’

  ‘Yes, sir, I know that.’

  Kynaston sighed. ‘I suppose it’s your job. I’m damned glad it isn’t mine! I imagine someone has to do it.’

  Pitt was stung. ‘Yes, sir. And sometimes it is extremely unpleasant, full of darkness and tragedy. But if it were your wife or daughter lying out there you would wish me to do everything in my power to learn the truth, whoever it inconvenienced.’ He took a breath. ‘I shall speak to all the servants, with your permission, in case they are able to help.’

  He expected Kynaston to lose his temper, but instead he began to tremble and went so ashen that had he not been sitting already he might well have fallen.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said very quietly. ‘I spoke without thinking. This whole business is deeply distressing.’

  Pitt wished he had not been so harsh. And yet he had meant what he said, even if he knew instantly that he should not have said it. Perhaps it would be wiser now to leave the matter of his affair until he was more composed. ‘I’ll keep you informed, sir, should we actually find Kitty Ryder. But it was certainly not her body in the gravel pit, either the first time or now.’

  ‘Thank you. Norton will see you out.’

  Pitt went into the hall where Norton handed him his clean and polished boots, and retrieved the slippers. Pitt thanked him.

  Pitt spent the rest of the morning checking what Kynaston had said. He did not disbelieve him, but he wanted to have the proof so he could rebut any accusations made by journalists. More importantly he must be able to answer questions firmly, even tartly, that Somerset Carlisle might raise in the House, under the privilege afforded him as a Member of Parliament.

  By two o’clock in the afternoon he was tired and miserable. His stomach was gnawing at him with hunger, so much so that he felt light-headed as he sat at one of the tables in a pub. Eating a big steak and kidney pudding with a glass of cider helped little.

  Kynaston had been at his club, but he had left at least an hour earlier than he had said, and arrived home an hour later than he had told Pitt. Neither had there been any recorded incidents of traffic accidents or other delays. He had had Stoker speak to a number of hansom drivers, as they were the most reliable source of information as to the traffic conditions on the streets. It was part of their livelihood to know. Word of delays, accidents, and mischance of any sort spread like fire among them. There was hardly a street in London they did not frequent, let alone the way from Kynaston’s club in central London to his home on Shooters Hill.

  The barmaid passed by, checking that he was satisfied with his meal. He smiled his thanks and took another mouthful.

  Why had Kynaston lied? Clearly he was afraid, but of whom? Of what? Where had he been for nearly two hours that he had not accounted for?

  Perhaps the matter came back to his mistress again? The issue of Kitty Ryder’s disappearance had all but died from the public mind. The newspapers’ attention had been taken by other things. The police wished to identify the first body, but had already pursued it as far as they could. Kynaston might reasonably have believed that life was back to normal. Only the discovery of this new body in the gravel pit brought the whole thing flooding back to mind.

  Pitt kept on eating, warmer at last.

  No doubt the newspapers would have banner headlines on this second wretched discovery. They would sell thousands of extra copies on the sheer horror of it. They would go after Kynaston again because he was a public figure. It was a temptation they would not even try to resist.

  Why in heaven’s name had he lied? He must surely have foreseen that?

  Pitt knew he must weigh how he would answer Talbot, when he sent for him, as he assuredly would.

  Then another thought occurred to him. Was it conceivable that Kynaston knew who had killed those women? Was he protecting him willingly? Or was he afraid of him? Was someone he loved in jeopardy of far deeper involvement than Kynaston could protect them from?

  Pitt finished his meal without the enjoyment such cooking deserved, emptied his glass of cider. He went out to find a hansom to take him to Downing Street to report this latest event to Edom Talbot — although no doubt Talbot would have heard of it already, at least the facts.

  Pitt was correct on that. He was ushered in immediately, and Talbot saw him within ten minutes. Only an interview with the Prime Minister himself could take precedence over this.

  Talbot came into the room stiff with fury. His hands fumbled with the doorknob and he ended up slamming it in spite of himself. This w
as the residence and the office of the Prime Minister of Great Britain, and he could not afford such a loss of self-control. He blamed Pitt for it.

  ‘What in heaven’s name are you doing, Pitt?’ he demanded in a low, angry voice. ‘I thought you had this thing under control!’

  Pitt knew that he could not afford to lose his own self-mastery. Narraway would not have, whatever he felt. He had a temper — Pitt knew that very well — but Narraway just had too much dignity to allow someone else to manipulate him. That thought was helpful. He clung on to it.

  ‘We did have, sir,’ he replied stiffly, ‘until this new body was found. We have no idea yet who she is. I’m waiting for the police surgeon to tell me what he has found, or can deduce. My first priority was to see if Mr Kynaston could provide proof that it has nothing to do with him, or anyone in his house.’

  ‘And did you?’ Talbot could not conceal his fear. His face was strained, muscles of his neck so tight he could barely turn his head without a wince of pain. His high, stiff collar must be biting into him.

  ‘To my own satisfaction,’ Pitt answered. ‘But it won’t satisfy the police, or the newspapers, if they get hold of it. It certainly wouldn’t satisfy a jury.’

  Talbot seemed not to be breathing, yet a nerve jumped in his temple.

  ‘Be precise, man,’ he snapped. ‘What are you talking about? The Prime Minister can’t deal in “whats” and “ifs” and “maybes”. Is Kynaston implicated or not? If that damn fool Carlisle asks questions in the House again, the Prime Minister has to have a decent and absolute answer! And I have to be able to assure him that it is accurate. And in spite of appearance to the contrary, that Special Branch knows what the devil it’s doing!’

  Pitt kept his voice level with a considerable effort.

  ‘This woman had a gold watch chain with a very unusual fob. The first one had the actual watch, you will remember …’

  ‘Half the well-to-do men in London have gold watches,’ Talbot snapped. ‘Probably most of them have a chain and fob of some sort.’